


The Worst (Best) Possible Thing

by Moony_07



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Baker Stiles Stilinski, Cora Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Family Fluff, Healer Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Laura Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Cooks, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, The Hale Family, The Hale Family (Teen Wolf) Lives, Werewolf Derek, but not really I'll explain that in the notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moony_07/pseuds/Moony_07
Summary: Stiles is a Vols that just wants to protect his family, but it becomes a tad weirder when some big, random-ass dog keeps approaching him. On top of that, more friendly supernatural creatures are getting sick as the days creep on, he keeps getting this horrible pull in his gut, and school is starting to get way too stressful.At least he has Scott.Until Scott stops visiting his house. And starts avoiding him in school.In these moments, Stiles has to ask what in the everloving fuck he’s done to deserve this.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 10
Kudos: 106





	1. Nobody Likes Alpha Corbyn, And Stiles Is The Complete Opposite Of An Exception

**Author's Note:**

> Any human can be a spark, so I wanted to gives Stiles something special. He's somewhere between a wizard and a witch, called a Vols (Volsheb). There's more info at the end notes.
> 
> Anyways, here's my slow-burn angsty word vomit. Woohoo.
> 
> (2/4/2020: So I rewrote the entire chapter. Why, you ask? Because I didn't like it. Sorry if you liked it, 'cuz I sure didn't. I thought I could do better, so I did better, and I'm glad I did this. Anyway, have fun.)

“Stiiiiiles.”

“Scooooootty.”

Scott sticks out his lower lip, face forming into a full-throttle pout, absolutely obliterating my last wall of “Puppy Eyes McCall” resistance that I’ve spent far too much time building. All for nothing, in the end.

Still paying half of my attention to the protection rune I’m painting onto a new jar of marigold (The last one got knocked off when a nymph busted in with horrible wounds, rip), I murmur, “Yes, the necklace is finished. It’s on my desk. Don’t get too excited, I know you break things when you’re excited.”

Scott lets out a little squeal, giving me a quick half-hug and then bolting over to a little table in the corner of my room. There are all kinds of guards on the bookshelves around it; pretty much anything you could _think_ of. Salt lines, runes, sigils, herbs tied with blessed twine? I’ve got it down. And that’s just for the decently ancient books, the rarer editions are packed away in a whole other level of protected.

What can I say? I like having my priorities in order, even if said priorities take a _hell_ of a lot of elbow grease to secure.

“Allison is going to _love_ it,” he practically gushes, holding up the necklace with its pendant resting gently in his palm.

“Haven’t you learned that jewelry is probably the last thing a badass, dirt-and-blood woman would want for her anniversary?” I question.

“Oh, _please_ ,” he scoffs, “Don’t sell yourself short. The craftsmanship is amazing, and you even carved runes in it to help keep her safe. She’ll love it, even with being a badass and all.”

I let out a soft chuckle. “Whatever you say, Scotty.”

A muffled buzz sounds from Scott’s jean pocket, and he quickly flips his phone out, tapping at the screen a few times before letting a grin split his face.

“I’ve gotta go. Don’t die,” he jokes, playfully punching my shoulder.

“I’ll try not to, but no promises,” I reply, setting down the jar of marigold and turning to give him a full hug.

A few pats on the back, and Scott’s gone.

Only an hour or so later, I step outside to check on the sigils under my rocks. There’s only five or so, granting safety, health, peace, all that good stuff. It feels reassuring to just… know they’re still there. No matter how much moss grows over them, if the roots of trees nearby start to act as camouflage, I check on the little lumps in the ground. I spend a moment of silence remembering the first time I set them down.

When I’d first left the nest, things weren’t exactly easy. I was still in a familiar environment, Beacon Hills, but I didn’t live with my dad anymore. I could have lonely dance parties till four AM without having to worry about him waking, I could cultivate about a million plants without concerns over what somebody else thought, I could have the freedom to make my own decisions.

But there’s always risks to living alone, and _especially_ as a Vols. My kind are practically extinct: there’s barely a shred of history on us but we're pretty much at the very top of the most wanted list.

There's an even bigger risk when you're me: Stiles Stilinski, self-taught supernatural medic that knows how to wave his hands around well enough that random alien energy suddenly materializes (which should cause some sort of atomic fusion, since a ton of random particles suddenly appear, but who gives a shit about chemistry anyway).

Sugar, spice, and explosive magical properties. Those are the ingredients needed to make your own personal Stiles.

The birds chirp loudly above, thousands of leaves above all fluttering gently in the cool spring breeze. Sunlight flows down through the canopy, little blotches dotting my skin. 

A twig snaps behind me, followed by a short huff. I quickly swerve around, a tiny panic attack flashing through my body at the sight of inky black fur.

The creature looks like a dog, but much, much bigger and much, much scarier. I'd recognize a wolf anywhere, really. Once you realize how massive they are and how genuinely terrifying their teeth are, there's really no going back. No forgetting.

"Well hello there," I greet, eyebrows raising.

The wolf pads towards me, then touches its nose to my leg. I cautiously kneel down, keeping my hands in front of me with the palms facing forward so it doesn't rip my fucking throat out.

There's a delicate air to our interaction, and if it didn't feel so safe then maybe I'd be coming up with a plan to somehow call Scott back.

I feel a slight wetness poke against my bicep and snap out of my thoughts to witness the wolf prodding my rune markings with its nose. The runes are painted over my skin with a mixture of tree ash, some herbs, and rainwater that'd dropped down from the canopy above. The marks become permanent after a slight burn, but hey, anything to stay alive.

"To protect myself," I explain, absently running a finger over the dark grey lines.

The wolf lets out a soft whine, butting its head against my chin.

"Just some precautions," I assure it, "When you're me, you can't really live in peace. But hey, if you ever get hurt or need somebody to give you the finest belly rubs in town, I'd be happy to help."

Another whine breaks through the air, but less somber than before. I scratch the wolf behind its ears, gingerly letting my hand slide over its head. Its fur is thick- thicker than I'd originally anticipated. A low grumble and the large animal leaning into my touch is all I need to know to get comfortable where I am and continue the petting.

Soon, the sound of a few pairs of goat feet click over the stone path to my house, steadily approaching. The wolf's ear's fidget, but I assure it that there's no danger. Giving a stroke over its cheek, I quietly stand.

A small family of fauns (like satyrs, but with more goat qualities and related to Pan instead of Dionysus) stops dead in their tracks upon the sight of the wolf.

"Don't worry," I assure, "If he bites your heads off, I'll bite his head off."

The wolf huffs, sending me a look that could pass as a glare.

"I'm not scared of you, buddy," I half-lie. _You're mesmerizing, a beautiful animal. But I know how strong that jaw is. Though, since when has a sharp bite stopped people?_

The family of fauns comes in search of help for their youngest, who has a fractured ankle. It seems as though they've tried other medics; the wound is bandaged well and she's using the assistance of a crutch.

Once we're inside and I've gotten a decent image on what happened (tripped over something, fell, was really unlucky), I'm able to ease the pain the best I can. It takes only a moment too long of focus, flowing, silky strings of magic circling around her leg.

It's a bit unusual, a bit _concerning_ that I find traces of some darkness around her ankle. Like it wasn't an exposed tree root that tripped her.

Once a day's work is done and the usual amount of patients has passed by, I'm able to collapse in bed with a good dinner in my stomach and exhaustion making my bones weigh me down. 

And then I'm woken up in the middle of the night to _growling_. Which is already a whole fucking complex of weird when you don't own any-

_Dogs. Wolves._

_Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh no._

I rub at my eyes, blindly swatting for the lamp beside my bed and flicking it on to submerge my room in golden light.

For a moment, nothing looks out of place. Then, a shadow-black form rises from the side of my bed, bristled and rumbling like a fucking _car_ and aiming all of its attention at the window.

I pat the wolf between his ears, heaving myself out of bed in only sweatpants and trudging over to the window. There's a man outside with a lantern of icy blue light in his hand, just _standing_ on the stone path. Waiting.

The wolf's growling goes up an entire notch that I didn't even realize they could _do_ , and I whip around in time to witness another man in my doorway. There's rope and duct tape in his hand. I really don't want to know what he could've done if the wolf weren't here to wake my sorry ass up.

If he steps one foot through that doorway, the protections set on this room will either burn him alive or give him the equivalent feeling of being tazed. Three times.

"Y'know, you could've just knocked," I point out, raising my eyebrows.

"Alpha Corbyn requests your admittance," the man replies in a stoic tone.

"Tell him to kindly shove that request _up his ass_ ," I snap back, clapping my hands together to form an electric sum of energy between my hands. The magic tickles at my palms, feeling alive and destructive.

"Alpha Corbyn requests your-"

 _"Nyeh nyeh Alpha Corbyn doesn't care for consent,"_ I mock, continuing with a sharp, "I'm not about to get mated off to some fucking weirdo with daddy issues and a god complex. My life is just _fine_ and _dandy_ without your pack's annoying fucking interventions."

The wolf in the room looks like I've just pronounced I'm going on a suicide mission, but there's this glint in its eyes. Amusement. Protectiveness. I wish I could make out what it really means, but I can't be distracted now.

"Could you please just send him a formal letter-" the man tries, but at this point, I'm just _fed up_.

"A _letter_? Is that _really_ what it's gonna take for you jerkoffs to leave me alone, or am I going to have to neuter your goddamn alpha because _he's a big boy now and needs to learn what it means to disturb a poor, tired Vols for three and a half years_?" I hiss, my voice getting a condescending, babying tone near the end.

The man sighs. "So I see you're going to be difficult."

" _I'm_ being difficult?" I scoff, turning to the wolf and saying, "Can you _believe_ this?"

The wolf huffs angrily, quietly coming closer and knocking its head against my leg. If I were completely sound, I'd think it was an affectionate gesture.

"How about you do something for me, hm? Scamper back to your pack with your tail between your legs and tell your alpha _every single reason_ I don't want to babysit him for the rest of his life," I snap, "Tell him he doesn't need me to say his dick's big. He already has an ego bigger than mount _fucking_ Rushmore."

"Stilinski-"

"Tell him he's as unappealing as a white crayon or let me kick your ass to Albuquerque and back. Either way, you and your friend will be wailing your way home."

The man's face warps into a tight scowl, his fists curling and uncurling. "One month, Stilinski. One month."

" _Fuck_ you."

He all but flees the house, taking his lantern-holding friend with him. I slam my bedroom door shut, falling onto my bed with a heavy sigh.

The wolf makes a distressed sound, plopping its head onto the bed and poking me with its nose a few times. I card my fingers through its fur, letting my eyelids droop closed.

In the midst of the cloudy, warm, dreamlike landscape between sleep and wakefulness, a weight slides down beside me. Its head is laid on my chest, right over my heart.

***

Scott and I have a few college classes together. Sure, we're supposed to meet new people, but I know practically everybody in this town already. College really is underwhelming after two years.

So, it's pretty difficult to avoid Scott on a normal day.

But somehow _Scott_ is avoiding _me._

And I have no fucking idea how he's getting away with it.

Maybe the necklace broke. Maybe Allison didn't like it. Maybe she decided to leave him out of nowhere ( _very_ unlikely, even if the necklace sucked ass) and he's still sad about it. What I do know is that he's butthurt about _something_ , since none of my texts and calls have gotten responses. Only the mocking word _"seen"_. 

I go to school, he isn't there. I do my rounds at home, not a single text jostles my phone. The wolf still stopped by for a few days until it suddenly _disappeared_ altogether. 

I should be figuring out what to do about Alpha Corbyn.

But I can't _focus._

One Friday evening, I'm contacting a few dryads over skype to talk about the state of the forest, since the fact that there's darkness lacing some of my patient's wounds has been nagging me for all too long. They mention that there seems to be a minor sickness going around like a cold, but nothing too concerning.

I leave the call feeling more confused than before.


	2. Everything Should Be Fine.... Probably

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly a werewolf appears. Said werewolf is in immense pain. Woohoo!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (April 14th, 2020) OI, I REWROTE THE LAST CHAPTER LIKE A WEEK AGO. If you haven't already, you should go read that. Like right now.

“What in the everloving  _ fuck _ .”

Is what I say upon opening the door to my bedroom on a Saturday night, letting my small bag of freshly gathered herbs fall to the floor.

There’s a man collapsed against the side of my bed, his breathing harsh and shallow. His eyes are glazed over with sheer pain. I kneel down next to him, following the dark veins being corrupted by what’s  _ most likely  _ wolfsbane down to his forearm. The bullet nestled in his muscle has hazy purple fog escaping like steam would from a fresh bowl of  _ chicken noodle soup.  _

In the midst of quiet swears escaping my mouth and panicked thoughts swimming around my head, something switches my actions onto autopilot. I yank out a towel from underneath my nightstand and lay it out over my bed. Of course, it’s fucking unbelievably difficult to lift this dead weight of a man onto literally anything of decent height, but I somehow manage to heave his body upwards with all the strength I have.

I know I’m a decently strong person, but this guy? You could probably wash clothes with his abs.

_ Checked the pulse, the breathing… That’s most definitely wolfsbane. No other plant would make a wound glow like that. _

I scramble over towards my rickety bookshelf, pushing a few faux books aside and unlocking a small toolbox with jars of wolfsbane inside. Pulling on sanitary gloves because for one, I’m  _ not about  _ to put my hands on some dude’s gory gunshot injury, and two, I care about germs. Werewolf or not.

I get the bullet out in record time. Then comes the bad part.

It only takes a half-hushed,  _ “Sorry.”  _ before I’m sticking ground wolfsbane onto his injury. Nobody needs to know I closed my eyes while doing so.

The man grunts, his face twisting in pain. I try to rub his other arm comfortingly, but it sort of feels awkward and almost violating.

Soon there’s no more quiet grunting, only the soft huffs of him breathing, his chest rising and falling along with it. Despite the fact that he’s definitely a werewolf, I wrap up the injury in bandages and clip a necklace around it.

The necklace is a good luck charm of sorts, a Sea World pin attached to it. The rarest of occurrences is getting to go on vacation with my dad, and one summer, we went to the aquatic Disneyland. Hopefully, the werewolf doesn’t break my souvenir into a million pieces. Along with my heart.

I sit through three-fourths of a Loud Mouths Podcast episode before there’s a thump sounding from upstairs and I have to put my crochet stuff down (I make sweaters for my plants. Sue me).

Upon entering my bedroom, I see the man halfway to the floor, some of my covers wrapped around his ankles. He’s laying in an uncomfortable reverse lawn chair position, blanket-confined legs dwindling in the air while his upper half is smooshed against the rug. And to make matters worse, he’s a  _ tall  _ guy. Gravity is most definitely  _ not  _ in his favor here.

I wrap my arms around the middle of his torso and heave him up onto the bed, almost throwing my back out in the process.

“Are you okay?” I ask, poking his cheek.

“I feel like shit,” he grunts, curling up into a ball.

“Well, you’re with a medic, so if you need anything just call.”

He nods.

Instead of going back downstairs, I slide down until my back is pressed against the side of the bed. The werewolf’s tranquil breathing gently lulls me to a weird plane of reality in the middle of dreaming and wakefulness. I’d be lying if I were to say it weren’t partly the fault of the fact that there’s another person in the room, sleeping in my bed, smelling like fresh air, pine, and dogs.

What snaps me out of the delicate comfort is a hand tapping at my shoulder.

“If a few people that look suspiciously like female versions of me show up at your doorway, don’t let them see me,” he says quietly.

“Like a patient-doctor kind of confidentiality sort of thing but an actual person is being pronounced confidential?” I ask.

“More like I don’t feel like dealing with too many questions right now.”

I nod, silently recalling how many times Scott’s busted in with random shit to interrogate me with. “That’s fine.”

I slide my hand over the one that’s still resting over my shoulder, letting myself absorb some of his pain. A dull yet foggily stinging ache arises in my forearm, but the tense hand captured in mine goes lax in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna remind everyone again that about a week ago I rewrote the last chapter. If anyone is reading this after April 14th, 2020, then you're fine. But otherwise, it wouldn't hurt to check if you've read the update.
> 
> I'm sorry that I haven't responded to comments yet, I promise to get on that soon. Life has gotten messy with online school and all that.


	3. The Beginning Of Something Horribly Wonderful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In comes the fated siblings that Stiles has been destined to meet. Also, a small nod to Wilbur Soot, because why not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a kick-ass hot chocolate with some coffee and vanilla (?) creamer mixed in. Heaven is what it is. Fuck all other drinks, I'd substitute this shit for water any day.
> 
> Off of the subject of my amazing drink-making skills, enjoy the read!

_ “So how’d you meet Minx, then?” _

_ “Uhm… Well, let’s talk about Hot Pockets for a bit more…” _

While the sound of low, raspy voices is predominately coming from my television, the smell of freshly baked cake begins to waft through the house as it gets closer to being done. Just as I’ve put the cork on a new jar of rosemary, a proud  _ ding! _ chimes from the kitchen.

I do my calculated dance of a routine around the kitchen, having made this cake a few times before. My dad used to put Cool Whip on this specific food. I grew to like it, though at first to me it made the finished product taste less than desirable.

Angel food cake. Smells like warm family gatherings and my own childhood. I only learned how to  _ bake  _ it a few years ago, before that my dad would buy it from the store. Sometimes I even prefer the store-bought delicacy, but then I remind myself that when there’s the suspicion of some noticeable dark energy out in the world, it’s best that I stay away from people.

Not like I’m unaccustomed to staying in my own little world out here in the forest. Some days my neighbors- a small family of centaurs- stop by to visit with gifts of good food that warms your belly and seems almost hypnotic to the point that one could be lulled to sleep after only a few bites. 

They run a magical bakery, it’s the literal fucking best. Sometimes I catch their little fillies playing out in my yard, and when they notice me standing at the sliding glass door in my living room with a cup of coffee, they’ll start waving excitedly. I’m usually yanked out to stop being the cave dweller I am and play sharks and minnows with kids that have double the amount of legs that I do.

It’s been a good one night since the werewolf randomly appeared in my room and practically scared me shitless. He’s not such a bad house guest, taking naps and letting me dress his wound correctly so that all traces of wolfsbane are most  _ definitely  _ gone. The man is much calmer (though sometimes borderline creepy) and more agreeable (scratch the part when I tried to spoon feed him chicken noodle soup, don’t glare at me, you would too if an attractive man/woman/whatever the fuck else were sleeping in your bed) than most patients.

The moment I set my creation on a cake stand, the doorbell rings, and a fist raps at the door. I have to awkwardly pry my oven mitts off and open the front door with my elbow, but anything so urgent is worth hassling over.

Upon observing the fact that none of the three people in front of me (two females, one male) aren’t injured or on the quick road to death, I greet, “What brings you folk to my humble and also very heavily protected abode?”

The tallest of the apparent Brady Bunch, a woman that looks suspiciously enough like my werewolf friend, extends her hand and says, “Laura Hale. These are my packmates, Cora and Isaac. I hope we aren’t intruding on anything.”

“No, it’s fine. I just got some kickass angel food cake out of the oven, which you’re free to try. I promise it’s not poisoned.”

I step to the side, gesturing for the small group to step inside. Once everyone’s hovering by the kitchen- they have the weird, creepy kind of silent and intimidating energy as my buddy upstairs, so it’s safe to assume that they’re the family who he warned would ask one too many questions- I’m able to set my oven mitts down on the table and casually rest my elbows against the counter.

“Is that Wilbur Soot?” the girl named Cora asks, gesturing to my open living room.

“No, it’s the 2019 presidential debate on goat rights-  _ yes _ , it’s Wilbur Soot,  _ yes _ , you are more than welcome to go watch it,” I respond, feeling a smile pull at my lips.

She gives a small smile back with a thumbs-up and divebombs onto my couch.

Laura sighs. “We’re looking for Derek.”

“Sort of stubborn but kinda quiet dude? About yay high-” I raise a flattened hand up towards the ceiling, overdramatizing our height difference- “with stubble and unfairly pretty hazel eyes that knocked me off my ass the first time I met him?”

“Yes,” she says, amused, “Exactly.”

“Never met him,” I joke, but then go back to complete seriousness as I continue, “But really, he doesn’t seem to want to talk. I can go and try to convince him to come down, though ultimately it isn’t my choice. And if you try to force your way up there, I’ll kick you out.”

She nods, murmuring, “That’s our Derek. Doesn’t like questions. I’d appreciate it if you could try and get him here, Vols Stilinski.”

_ “Please just call me Stiles, you sound like a pack I very immensely dislike when you call me that.” _

“Stiles,” she corrects, a feline- but still friendly- smile brightening her previously stoic expression. 

I leave the werewolf trio downstairs, padding up the narrow steps to my room. There, all the lights are off. Sun peeks in through a window by my closet, but a curtain dulls it down. The weak sun beats down on a single rectangle of the floor.

Curled up in a blanket burrito with his head burrowed into my favorite pillow is Derek Hale, the werewolf that came to  _ me  _ for help and has been sleeping in  _ my _ home. I’d be lying if I were to say that a small wave of protectiveness doesn’t sweep over me. He’s a patient, after all, and a polite one at that.

“Hey,” I whisper, sitting down on the side of the bed beside him. “Your sisters and brother are here for you.”

He mutters a string of incoherent words into my pillow, but I think I can make out “not brother” among them.

I gently prod his shoulder, then settle on letting my hand rest there. “If I make them promise not to ask too much, will you come down?”

He only nestles further into the blanket.  _ Mood. _

Only the inky black tufts of Derek’s hair and a sliver of his forehead stick out of the covers at this point, and I can only imagine how comfortably warm he is in a fortress of sheets and pillows. 

I remember hiding like that back when I was a kid after my mom died. Not wanting to go to school. Not wanting to interact with the world. Drowning in the deafening quiet, where I could imagine a life far, far away, where everything was okay. Where my mom would suddenly come home, arm interlocked with my dad’s, and I’d be able to jump into her embrace.

No matter what sickness could’ve come between us, I  _ loved  _ her. I continue to love her.

The blankets shift under my hand, and I catch the sight of a pair of eyes peeking over at me. They’re like the canopies of trees, flecks of sunshine dotting through, a deep bark situated in perfect harmony with every other color.

I quietly laugh at myself, recalling, “Right. You can smell emotions, can’t you?”

“It’s bittersweet,” he murmurs, and I flinch upon hearing the care and warmth seeping into his tone. “You were sitting here, but at the same time, you were somewhere else. I’ve seen people flicking through memories plenty, but yours are…”

“My mom,” I say quietly because if spoken too loudly, I’d fall apart.

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Distantly, I understand. I know that if I could suddenly never see my mother again, I’d probably never come out of my room for six years.”

A stupid chuckle escapes my mouth. “My dad sort of forced me to try and be normal again. Not that he didn’t care for me, he just didn’t want my mom’s death to take too big of a toll and that’s all he knew to do and-”

“I get it.”

There are a few moments of silence before I remind him, “Your family wants you.”

“My family can wait. They know about you, so they know I’m in good hands.”

“They know about my  _ reputation _ . I could be murdering others in my spare time like Hannibal Lecter.”

A glimmer of amusement flickers in his eyes. “I don’t think you’d do that.”

“Sometimes I still gag at the sight of blood.”

“Me too.”

Derek shimmies a bit before sitting up, the covers sliding down, though there’s still a blanket draped over his shoulders. I didn’t have any shirts in his size, so he’s sort of paraded around shirtless whenever he has to get up and stretch his legs.

“You smell nice,” he says as a  _ completely normal  _ compliment, and I can see the realization that his word choice might’ve not been the best dawning on his face.

“I was baking angel food cake. I think your sister is eating it right now. Also, nice work with the bluntness, Shakespeare.”

“I bet you couldn’t do anything better.”

“On the contrary. I have a Lexile range of six thousand.”

_ “Oh my god,”  _ he whispers,  _ “Ultra-nerd.” _

“What the-” I cut myself off by grabbing the nearest pillow and whacking his good arm with it. 

He merely chuckles at my attempt of retribution, a light laugh that catches me off guard almost instantly.

Soon we’re wrestling, and if I unfairly use pillows as leverage, nobody has to know. I don’t really know  _ why  _ we started to fight, but all I know is that after he’d finished laughing earlier, he decided to stab me with the same weapon I used to hit him. Which, I mean,  _ fair _ , but also  _ unacceptable  _ because  _ I’m the  _ king of the castle and  _ he’s  _ supposed to be resting.

Then we quarreled over the matter. He said he can take another nap later (you need to rest up! No, mama  _ did  _ raise a bitch. Goddamnit Derek, I was joking. Stop-  _ Augh! No more pillows! Jesus fuck! _ ).

So he wasn’t having the “We’re not fighting over this because your body needs to properly adjust to the sheer amount of wolfsbane that almost killed you” matter, and decided to declare war. Not my fault he signed his own death warrant.

“So I see you don’t play by the rules,” he points out, whipping out a hand to stop from another pillow nailing him in the face.

“There were literally no rules. If there were rules, they’d say that Stiles gets to fight with pillows, because A: you’re a werewolf, and B:  _ you’re a werewolf _ .”

“Counterpoint: Stiles is a Vols and could just use his magic for the upper hand.”

“Counterpoint to that counterpoint:  _ Stiles is lazy _ .”

“But it would take less energy to just-” Derek is interrupted by a mouthful of pillow.

I only half a second to murmur out a half-concerned,  _ “Viva la revolution…?”  _ before Derek’s freeing himself from the confines of plushness and chucking the pillow to lord knows where. He’s giving me this  _ “Really?”  _ sort of look, with an amused smile only growing on his lips and a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“So are you going to come down and tell your siblings everything? Including me?”

“Mm…”

_ “Derek. Come on.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've shaped Laura to be more of a motherly type, because not too much of her personality shines through in the show. However, she's still a bit laid-back like Derek. Cora's literally the physical embodiment of being a stubborn teenager with a knack for spending hours on YouTube. Don't worry, though, it's remotely easy for one to befriend her if you've got something in common! Yay!
> 
> Stay classy, folks.

**Author's Note:**

> "A mix of wizard and witch, characterized mainly by the runes they draw on their body with the ashes that relate to their respective spirit. They have above-average reflexes, and can usually sense danger (described as a weird nagging, dreadful pull deep in their gut). 
> 
> Certain kinds of spirits (only four: forest, moon, sun, and water) protect them from danger, and in some cases are said to be the sense of danger Vols’ feel when a hostile is present or damaging their territory. There are rare cases where a spirit can reside inside a person, which means a Vols can have two different kinds of spirits protecting it. 
> 
> Vols’ know what spirits that they have through Callings. Callings can be unusually clear childhood memories revolving around a spirit’s element area, or even an unusual happening with the only explanation being that it is a Calling."
> 
> (Gonna say this again: I rewrote the ENTIRE chapter. Like, even the plot's SLIGHTLY different. I gotta update the goddamn story description. I hate story descriptions when they're about my stories. Other stories? Very helpful. But from me? I just straight-up suck at those, haha. Anyway, thanks for the comments! I'll be replying to them soon!)


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